6d, 10h

Hey, remember that time Celestia beat Chrysalis without even trying? And then revealed everything that’s ever happened in the show has been part of her plan? And then she flew around Equestria solving every problem and Luna popped out and gave you a blowjob?

No?

Well, shit. I wonder why.

…That’s pretty much the entire blog explained in exactly fifty words. A more in-depth analysis on this subject after the page break.

Pick up some flashlights, folks. ‘Cause we’re gonna throw some shade.

So, I was actually slightly angry when I started this blog, but thankfully enough a butterfly flew by and I ran away chasing it. Ended up in a forest, got lost, fucked what I hope was a tree, and now I’m back and definitely not mad anymore—so worry not, I won’t be foaming at the mouth while I type.

However, I will continue writing what I believe is an incredibly nitpicky blog post, because I thought this issue only affected me (and not even Aragón gives a shit about Aragón), but then I saw that, holy shit, a friend was going through the exact same crap. This calls for a couple thousand words of me whining, if I’m the one to judge.

But enough beating around the bush – like the man who sweetly whispers “no homo” before fucking his Dalmatian, I’ll go straight to the point: sometimes, characters fuck up. This is not the story’s flaw. This is the character’s flaw. And that is good.

As you, astute reader, might have inferred from the title of this blog, I’m talking about the Princesses in particular, and why they should be allowed to have flaws. Because, sadly, a lot of people want them to be absolutely perfect… But, alas, that can’t be. For a perfect character is like juggling with komodo dragons: you better know what the fuck you’re doing, or else someone’s getting his dick bit off.

So, okay. Back up, you say. You’re not making any sense, Aragon. Wait, is it “Aragon” or “Aragón”? Can I call you Aragon? It’s easier to type. To which I reply: why, you can call me whatever you want, buddy. I don’t really care. We’re all friends in here. Make yourself comfortable. There are drinks and peanuts on the table, if you want some.

This is a long story, so I’ll try to make it short: when the show started Princess Celestia was a mysterious figure. She was a mentor, a wise idol for Twilight to look up to, and adore. In the first season, we get but mere glimpses of her: she raises the sun. She’s an alicorn. She planned Luna’s return and bet her life on Twilight, and the bet paid off. When the best night of the year comes around, Twilight’s only wish is to spend it in her company.

It’s a powerful image. There’s a reason why Celestia and Luna are so popular – the less you know about a character, the more you want to know. You want to fill the blanks, because they are just teasing you, and every time they appear they let you catch a glimpse, big enough for you to get your hopes up, but small enough to let you wanting for more.

Sounds familiar? It’s really similar to that thing creepy people say when they want to sound smart: eroticism is sexier than outright porn. Suggesting the shape of a nipple under a white cotton shirt is better than thirty tits plastered against you TV screen with sax music in the background.

Am I saying people want to fuck Luna and Celestia? Yes. Exactly. But on top of that, I’m saying they are interesting because we know little of them. For all we know, they might as well be gods – infinitely powerful, infinitely wise, older than we can imagine. The show knows this, and plays with it; the start of Season Two has that moment where Celestia, for the first time in the series, is shown as scared. And that’s how we know Discord is bad news: he scared Celestia. If Celestia is scared, then he’s a great threat.

So far, so good. Luna had even less screentime, so she was a total wild card, but what little we knew of Celestia painted her as simply superior to any other life form in Equestria.

But.

And this is a huge but.

That shit is in the past. Gone. Bye-bye. Flew through the window, went down the drain. Kicked the bucket. Gave up the ghost. Shit be no more.

The mystery was solved, folks, and it went away not with a bang but with a whisper. Chrysalis defeated Celestia. Episode 100 showed the Princesses bickering with each other. Tirek won until Twilight came around. The comics had Celestia fall in love for fuck’s sake.

Are the Princesses normal? Nah. They’re immortal, and another species – that, alone, is enough to differentiate them from the common folk. But we got our answer: they’re not impossibly wise. They’re not impossibly powerful. There are enough clues in the show to assume that they are, in fact, way more normal than expected. They’re just really fucking old.

Which, I mean, is not something to scoff at? But I don’t assume my 93-years-old grandmother knows all the mysteries of the universe and has power over life and death. I assume she’s got a lot of stories to tell, and is a little bit racist. Her omelets are to die for. That’s all.

There’s this big problem in… pretty much any fandom, really, in which people assume their headcanons should be (and most times actually are) shared by everybody. That’s perfectly normal: when you give something for granted, you stop thinking it’s merely “your opinion”. And some interpretations are really damn popular—nowhere in the show will you see Luna calling Celestia “Tia”, but you would suspect otherwise if your only source of information was the huge amount of fanworks that use that nickname.

But that becomes a problem when it makes some folks see flaws where there ain’t any. I’ve had my share of people angry at my stories because they didn’t follow their headcanons… And they honestly believed that, because of this, the story was somewhat against canon, or stupid, or faulty, or personally offensive. Sometimes the offending bit was be something minor, like how in this story Berry Punch doesn’t have a daughter, and they would be somewhat polite about it. Sometimes, it was something major.

And, I mean – chances are the story is indeed stupid or personally offensive? But that’s because we’re talking about my stories, and I’m a fucking idiot.

By far, the most common faux-criticism my stories have got, though, is “Celestia would never allow this to happen, she is too smart/too powerful/ not mentally prepared to insert so many things in her vagina”. And sometimes the comments are polite, sure, but sometimes they sure as fuck aren’t.

This kind of “THIS SHIT DOESN’T FOLLOW MY HEADCANON” comment is usually not enough to make me think twice about this issue. Hell, most of the comments I get aren’t even on the story proper. They come from private chats, PMs, and reviews on places I won’t link.

And you know what? One could even argue that they have a point, which makes my ‘faux-criticism’ appellative a lie: a lot of my stories rely on character assassination. I believe that OOC is relative, that the format of a story should be malleable, that grammar rules are to be defied for the sake of a greater story, and pretty much anything that makes smart people think that I’m a huge idiot.

So, is my brand of character assassination an issue? I honestly have no idea. Maybe? I find it fun and I’m not hurting anybody, but hey, maybe it’s propagating the stereotype that all ponies are actually starfishes or some shit. Christ, weirder things have gone down in this website.

But here’s the thing – at least those comments have a point. Indeed, I once wrote a story in which Celestia happily desecrates a body in public, and that strikes some as weird, for it would never happen in the show. Hence, they point that out, and one can argue if they’re missing a point or not, but their argument is at least nominally right.

So this is not what pisses me off. What pisses me off is what I saw today – a person criticizing a story (that is not mine, and that I think is pretty good), explaining that the fic sucks and it should have never been written, because it included Celestia acting in a way that they saw as faulty. Real, objective faux-criticism, in which the issue was, and I quote, “this goes against my personal headcanon, so anything you’ve ever written is shit and you’re a fucking idiot.”

(I might not be quoting literally, but, shit, if I can’t make a strawman then what is the point of this blog?)

I’ll go a little in-depth here. I won’t give out the name of the story, or the name of whoever commented, because by the lack of testicles sprouting under my chin I infer I’m not a colossal dickhead? But I will explain, roughly, what happened:

• The story includes a plot point that affects Celestia in a particular way.

• Said plot point is a pretty big conflict in the universe of the story.

• The conflict could be fixed if Celestia was immensely powerful, immensely wise, immensely proactive, or any combination of the three.

• As the story is competently written, that is not the fucking case.

That, apparently, was enough to drive the person commenting absolutely insane. And the worst thing is, this wasn’t an isolated incident – this has happened many, many times. In many stories, with many angry people commenting.

I suspected this was a thing, but I didn’t realize it was an issue till today. And, frankly, it pisses me off because it’s just pretty damn dumb.

It’s insane the number of stories that have got downvotes, and horrible comments, and a constant influx of rage out of something as simple as “Celestia wasn’t all-powerful here”. I understand that, if one writes something like Rarity saying she hates fashion, some people may call you out on it. But that’s because Rarity is shown as liking fashion in the show, so it contradicts canon in an explicit way.

Maybe I’m exaggerating this a little bit, or being overly dramatic. I don’t know. The point is: this is not even about Celestia anymore, I think. This is about a lot of stuff that people are unhappy with. Twilight being an alicorn, Flash Sentry existing, Twilight being a Princess but not having any apparent authority, Celestia not being omniscient, Luna openly admitting she dislikes heavy metal. The list goes on and on and on, brah.

See a pattern? They’re all new things. Things that weren’t there at the start.

This is not about actual criticism. This is about change, about nostalgia.

At some point in life, every change is perceived as derivative, because you’re used to shit going one way and now it goes the other way and what the fuck do you mean, “Disco music is not cool anymore”. Fuck you. Fuck you. I just—don’t talk to me. Don’t fucking talk to me ever again. Jesus fucking Christ.

And this is normal! It might even be good or whatever, I have no fucking idea. But above it all? This is your opinion. This is not objective. Unless your argument as to why the changes are wrong is based on MORE stuff, then your opinion is only an opinion and has the weight of a feather fart.

Look, I hated Flash Sentry when he appeared. Part of the reason why I did so is because, well, I liked it better when Twilight had no romantic interest. I thought it made things more elegant. I was nostalgic about the times when she was single and ready to mingle. But I also thought the romance was badly written, and could explain you why.

So, was that opinion subjective? Yes. However, I weighted said opinion against some more obejctive arguments, to see if I was wrong or right. And then I used that as a ground for criticism. Sure, I was still biased, but I was at least trying to make a point. Also, Flash Sentry is a cunt, so like. You get me.

But a lot of people dislike the new stuff just because it’s new, and they don’t elaborate past that. This makes sense, but it means fuck-all when you’re talking to a writer. He's just there to write, man, and he's got his own ideas. I get that a lot of people liked Celestia better when she was mysterious and we could imagine her as all-powerful, or even a literal god. I get that the show peaked at Season Two, and that Seasons Three and Four were… controversial. I get that, for some, this change is derivative.

But, uh. Is there any actual, grounded reason why an all-powerful Celestia is objectively better than a more grounded, flawed one?

‘Cause, shit.

I can’t think of any.

Try as you might, but this shit’s got the words “personal opinion” written all over it. Call me a freak, but you’re not gonna have sex with me if you act like this, brosephanie. This sweet ass is not gonna kiss you goodbye if you walk that road. I’ve got standards. Low, sure. I just fucked a tree. But standards nonetheless.

The show has changed, Celestia has changed, and you’re perfectly entitled to prefer her past interpretation over the one we have now – but you are not entitled to force this interpretation onto others.

Every character is flawed, really. It’s foolish to expect them to always be reasonable, always take the most logical option, and never make any mistakes. This might happen – there are some killer stories out there that have characters that never really do anything wrong – but it’s not mandatory.

Some people confuse genuine, reasonable in-story mistakes with the author being an asshole, but that might not be the case. Just because the character is an idiot, or an immoral monster, doesn’t mean the author is the same.

Ugh. The more I think about this issue, the more complex it gets. This has to do with nostalgia, with reader trust, with people mistaking headcanons for actual canon material… Just like my penis, it’s endless, and it makes girls cross their legs and fan themselves with her hand.

Doesn’t mean I’m going to give up, mind you. See, I believe you simply can’t have an all-powerful entity solve every problem. You can’t expect your favorite character to just do whatever and make the fucking plot a non-issue. Stories have conflict, that’s what moves the story forward. “But Celestia could just zap away every monster!” Shit, or maybe she can’t. We don’t know. The show sure doesn’t think that, so why should the author do this? If, in-story, it’s established that this can’t happen, then… Why should it happen?

You know what’s a good definition for a dramatic story? “An exercise in frustration”. Giving the readers what they want immediately can work sometimes, but most of the time, it doesn’t. I get that, as a reader, you want the characters to be happy. You see a misunderstanding, or the characters struggling against a foe, and you want them to win. Because you’re invested.

But if they fix it all, the story ends. And maybe the characters can’t fix it all, because A) the plot doesn’t work that way, and B) the characters literally cannot do that for reasons that are explained in-universe.

(Actually, this is a good thing to talk about. Write it down for a later blog, yo.)

Wait, I think I just – see this? This thing I said? I just realized that's why this annoys me so much. Because this specific complain shows a total lack of understanding on how stories work in two different ways:

• From a metanarrative point of view, what you’re asking for here is called an “anticlimax”. The name itself means “the opposite of an orgasm”, so you can see why it’s bad. It breaks momentum and it ends the story prematurely. Nobody is left satisfied with this. You’re developing a threat, a conflict to—NEVER MIND, THE MAGICAL FLYING IMMORTAL ALIEN JUST POOPED A LOVE POTION, WE'RE DONE.

• From a narrative point of view, Celestia is not necessarily an omnipotent character. She might be, if you write her that way. She might not be, if you don’t write her that way. Depends on which interpretation you prefer.

Is this petty? This feels petty. I think I’m being petty.

But whatever, honestly. This applies to other issues of similar nature – I’m sure that if you’re a writer, you can somehow relate to this tirade I’m throwing here. It’s one thing when the story establishes Celestia as all-powerful, and then does fuck-all with it. That’s a plot hole. It’s another thing when the story doesn’t establish Celestia as God without a beard.

‘Cause that’s just not the standard anymore. You might write her that way, but not everybody does, and that’s not a mistake. If the story doesn’t say Celestia is all-powerful, then Celestia is not all-powerful. If you assume automatically that she’s omnipotent, then you’re headcanoning. Which is nice! But don’t insult the author over it.

‘Cause it’s a dumb thing to do, really. It shows a bad attitude, and some weird misconception on how a story or a character works. And, also, seeing how the show itself doesn’t see Celestia as an end-all for every problem, it shows a weird misunderstanding of canon too.

Sigh. I’ve rambled a lot here, I believe. But the point still stands.

It’s just—

Remember that time Celestia beat Chrysalis without even trying? And then revealed everything that’s ever happened in the show has been part of her plan? And then she flew around Equestria solving every problem and Luna popped out and gave you a blowjob?

7w, 4d

8w, 6h

I think I either seduced a teacher, or became a part-time lecturer myself. Or both. I'm still not sure.

Anyway! That will be explained in detail later, in a different blog, because I'm being actually serious, and this is the kind of story you share, god dammit. I thrive on the attention.

For now, let's talk prereaders.

As in, let's talk about how I need some.

Yeah. Not a lot of depth to this blog, 'cause I'm currently busy as hell, and I figured business comes before pleasure for once. Wacky hijicks will come in a couple days, sorry 'bout that.

So! I have proofreaders. A lot of proofreaders. People who check my story, judge the grammar and more technical side of it, and then move on. What I need now are prereaders, people who give me an opinion on the story's quality. Character, plot, dialogue, all that stuff. Actual critique of the least quantitative elements of the story.

SCARY STUFF, YO.

I'm currently on the very last steps of editing a story I've written. It's based on a commonly shared fanon subgenre that I've never touched (for many reasons), and you know what? I'm actually not gonna tell you what's about, exactly, 'cause god dammit the story is supposed to be enjoyable even if you know jackshit about the genre.

8w, 4d

So. Fifteen tips for y'all, straight outta the mouth of the biggest idiot this side of Europe:

1) If you're used to drinking coffee with milk and you like things that are bitter, try black coffee! It isn't nearly as strong as you think it is, and you can always add just a tiny bit of sugar to make it easier on the tongue!

2) In case you follow the previous tip, always remember that the amount of caffeine you take depends on the amount of coffee you drink. Coffee as in the brown/black stuff that you brewed.

3) It's not, I repeat, it's not measured in the number of mugs of liquid you drink.

4) Because if you are used to, perish the thought, coffee with milk, then one mug is actually very little coffee, which implies VERY LITTLE CAFFEINE.

5) AND THIS IS RELEVANT.

6) BECAUSE IF YOU THINK TO YOURSELF 'OH, I CAN DRINK THREE MUGS OF COFFEE AND NOTHING BAD WILL HAPPEN, I CAN DEAL WITH THAT'.

7) YOU'RE PROBABLY THINKING OF COFFEE WITH MILK.

8) WHICH MEANS VERY LITTLE ACTUAL COFFEE.

9) BUT YOU'RE DRINKING BLACK COFFEE NOW.

10) THREE MUGS IS WAY TOO MUCH COFFEE IF YOU'RE DRINKING BLACK COFFEE.

11) AND LONG STORY SHORT.

12) IT'S 2 AM ON A MONDAY.

13) AND I THINK.

14) I MIGHT BE HAVING.

15) A FUCKING HEART ATTACK.

THAT'S ALL.

GOOD NIGHT.

I'M GOING TO SMASH MY HEAD AGAINST A WALL FOR EIGHT CONSECUTIVE HOURS NOW.

29 comments · 609 views

11w, 8h

...With that, of course, I mean that you can buy a little piece of me, because I POUR MY SOULD AND BLOOD IN EVERY STORY I WRITE. I don't mean you can purchase a miniature spaniard that talks really fast. I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry. I know that's been your dream for decades, but science hasn't got that far yet. Give it time.

So anyway! Have you ever really wanted to see a particular story on the site? Have you thought of something I could -- or should -- write, and for some reason I'm too stupid to think about it myself? Do you enjoy the idea of forcing a handsome person like me to sit down and write, instead of frolicking in the fields alongside a beautiful shepherd who only speaks Old German?

Then boy, do I have good news for you. You can turn those dreams into a reality now!

EDIT: Or not. Story commissions closed, people! That was fast. You can still contact me, but unless your story is under 5-4k words, know that it'll be put on the waiting list, and maybe even if they're short enough (you can ask now to have priority for when the current commissions are done, though, I guess). Blogs are negotiable, send me a PM.

My stories tend to end up on the long side price for stories is going to be 6-7$ per 1,500 words. The price might vary a little depending on the story -- for example, really mature stuff like explicit sex scenes, gore, or whatever might be more expensive, while long stuff might end up being cheaper 'cause you're buying by the bulk -- but that's as temptative a guideline as any. If you want a shorter story, we can talk about it.

So I can write whatever genre you want me to, is what I mean. Mature stuff is absolutely allowed, although I reserve the right to chicken out of something if it's too extreme. Case-to-case thing, though, so don't worry too much about it. Specifics vary.

I can also write blog posts. It's come to my attention that some people seem to enjoy my blog posts more than they enjoy my stories (here you have somemoreexamples), so you can commission those too. They are short, entertaining, and easy to read.

Blogs are easier to write, so the price for blogs is going to be 5$ per 1,000 words. Again, I'm perfectly willing to negotiate the price here. I'm a real gentleman. I also have little knowledge on the field of arithmetics.

I'm aware that it's hard to categorize what kind of blog you can commission. Really, they rangue from story analysis, to reviews, to funny stories -- and there's also writing advice or tutorials, too. You can ask whatever you want, and I'll find an angle. I personally think the most obvious thing to ask for would be a commentary on a particular genre -- take my Romance blog series, for example -- but in all honesty, anything goes. You can ask for the story of why I'm not allowed at the Buddhist Temple, or why I can't sleep unless I have two pillows and an Italian lady caressing my hair. Take a look at the blog backlog, and you'll see what I mean. I might create a list of possible blogs you want me to write in the future, but this is a huge hypothetical. WE'LL SEE.

Nothing much to add! Send me a PM with what I want to write and how many words you're expecting, and then we'll start TALKING BUSINESS in a way that will convey MATURITY AND PROFESSIONALITY. I'll also probably DO SOMETHING SILLY, but THERE'S NO WAY TO KNOW.

NO WAY.

TO KNOW.

15 comments · 284 views

12w, 6d

No, for real -- the title ain't lying. If I arc my back a little when touching the ground after a situp and then let it down slowly, my shirt creates a weird bubble of air and it makes the fartest noise I've heard in my life. It was hilarious.

Shut up. It's 4 am and I can't sleep. I just heard that due to some bureaucratic mishap I don't have a house near my university yet so I'll be forced to skip the first couple days. Let me enjoy my back farts in peace.

Oh, and before I forget, quick little thing before the blog starts -- here's a Paypal link, I've got one of those now for if you wanna give me money. In case you're feeling generous, eh? Eh? EH?

Hey, had to try it.

Anyway! So, a couple months ago, while I was away in Hungary, a question popped up in the middle of a conversation: "If you were to be paid for writing, Aragón, what is the worst piece you could produce for any sum of money?"

This sparked a long-winged debate. However, we settled on a consensus, eventually:

Spike from the future, now an full-fleshed adult dragon, goes back in time. He kidnaps Rarity when she's just a foal, and then goes to the present and uses baby Rarity as a condom to fuck adult Rarity.

Of course, now the question was -- would I be able to fucking straightface that, or would I turn it into a comedy, seeing how that shit is the most hilarious prompt I've heard in a while? It definitely sounds like the polished and high-quality prose my readers have come to expect from me, that's for sure.

Guess we'll never know!

Story ain't over, mind you. Keep reading, there's no more weird erotically festive prompts under the cut. OR MAYBE THERE ARE. ONLY ONE WAY TO FIND OUT.

So ages ago, I made a Patreon. No, really, I did. I just never published the page, or link it anywhere, and then I quickly forgot about the project. There are many reasons for this, but one was the most prominent: I had no idea how that shit worked.

I mean, do you... Like, link your credit card to it? It's that how it works? I get that you sacrifice a goat or whatever to send money to Patreon, but then how does Patreon send me the money? Is there any way to -- okay no, fuck this. That bridge burned long ago. Maybe, if the stars align I might resurrect that project one day, but so far, screw it.

However, there's a reason why I bring this up: the page was written. I just found the text floating around on a text file in my computer, forgotten. When composing it, I got adviced to "avoid being an idiot about it, son, please. Just. Just try to be serious, for once in your life. Please. It's all I ask you. This money could be of great help, and I just---this is all I ask for. Please.Please take it seriously."

I did not take it seriously.

Patreon Milestones that I Wrote.

5$ Goal: Hard Writing, Smashing the Keyboard.

What does the name of the milestone mean, you ask? Why, it means that I will write pretty much exactly as fast as I normally write, but HARDER. What does this mean to the average number of stories per month, or blogs per month? Fucking beats me. Chances are they won't change. But the stories themselves? They'll be stronger. Tougher. Meaner. Hair-chested. I assume at least seven explosions per paragraph (and one cuddly kitten to obtain that pussy market).

My writing speed will not change, but the method will, as I WON'T BE THAT HARD. You catch more flies with honey, so there will be a lot of flowers in the stories, and also talking about feelings and friendship and puppies and chest hair. Won't be taking away the fucking explosions, though.

Also yadddah yaddah more regular blogs. Whatever. I'll average one story a month. I might also use the fifteen bucks to buy me a speedo, which I'll wear whenever I write. The INCREASED COMFORTABLENESS will surely help the quality of my prose. Also, it'll make it easier to SCRATCH MY BALLS.

30$ Goal: The Keyboard Feels My Love, And, Smiling, Blushes.

I blush back at the Keyboard. For a moment that we both fear and hope for, there seems to be a spark in the air between us.

This is the point where I gotta make my writing more regular, I guess? I already have the speedo, so it wouldn't be that hard. Have you seen those things? They're a dream come true, man.

Anyway, I was thinking something like a blog every twelve days. Both non-sequiturs and blog series, like the Bad Romance Blogs or Chronicles of My Life: Why I'm Not Allowed at the Buddhist Temple Anymore (I'm Really, Really Sorry, Guys).

50$ Goal: The Keyboard and I Share Long Walks on the Beach, but Trouble Arises: The Keyboard Has the Same Eyes as My Dead Wife.

Heartache brings inspiration. Blog a week while I woefully ponder my existence, and the nature of love, both present and past. Why, dear Annabelle? Why did you have to leave me? I'll write one story a month at least, I'll try to average two, but will that bring you back to my side?

Oh, but what is a story to you, Reader? You barely care, there are more important issues at hand. You heard the Keyboard cry yesterday, late at night. You talk to it, but there's no use. It thinks I'll leave it, for no keyboard can live to the memory of dear Annabelle.

50$ Goal: But I Am Not Afraid to Live Anymore. I Choose New Love: I'm Ready To Get Over Dear Annabelle.

The keyboard dresses in white, and as you walk it to the altar, you think the smile in its face could rival that of an angel. Then, the Keyboard and I share our bows, and they bring a tear to your eye.

And even though it might be a trick of the light, for a second, you think you catch a glimpse of dear Annabelle, by my side, smiling. I moved on.

She can, finally, go to Heaven.

Three stories a month, around 4k words.

100$ Goal: The Doctor Looks At Me With A Stern Face.

"Okay. So, why the hell do you have so many keys stuck to your dick, again?"

Man. I should have published that Patreon. I'M SURE NOBODY WOULD RESIST SUCH BRILLIANT MARKETING STRATEGY. PAYPAL LINK.

All said, part of the reason why I never posted the Patreon is also the fact that I stopped needing the money that badly. Real life things, you know how it goes -- I got a scholarship and I managed to relax. I feel a little queasy asking for money, to be honest. This is a huge blow to whatever scrap of dignity I have left.

Then again, I told you how a lampost beat the shit out of me, so what the hell. It's not like you're gonna think less of me at this point.

Anyway, money is needed again, so I'm opening commissions. I'm willing to write you shit. Blog tomorrow detailing it. AND MAYBE THAT WILL ALSO INCLUDE EROTICALLY FESTIVE PROMPTS FOR FANFICS. ONLY ONE WAY TO KNOW.

13w, 5d

There's no fucking way to preface this in a dignified way, so screw it. I'm being upfront.

I lost a fight against a streetlight last week.

Now, before you say anything: there’s a story behind this. First of all, the streetlight fought dirty – I wasn’t in a clear state of mind. Second of all, you can hardly blame me, damn it all to hell.

I had barely slept, because there’s a fucking pigeon nesting on a tree near my window, and the son of a bitch didn’t stop hooting until dawn (I know pigeons don’t hoot, they coo, but this one was hooting, trust me). After confronting it [1] I went to the dentist without having enough breakfast, and then I came back high as hell on anesthetics. I wasn’t thinking straight is what I mean. I have a weak constitution.

[1] Dramatization of the events that went on at around 7 am, when the sun rose and I realized the bird had kept me awake the whole night:

Pigeon: HOOT.

Me: FUCK OFF.

Pigeon: HOOT.

Me: FUCK OFF. YOU BIRD.

Pigeon: HOOT.

Me: I WILL END YOU. I WILL FUCKING END YOU. I WON’T ALLOW THIS.

Neighbor: OH MY GOD. SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Me: WHAT.

Neighbor: YOU WOKE UP MY DAUGHTER. YOU GODDAMN PIECE OF SHIT.

Me: ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME. I WOKE HER UP.

Pigeon: HOOT.

Neighbor: I HATE THIS NEIGHBORHOOD.

I’m aware this implies I started off the morning by losing a debate against the most retarded of birds.

So after this I'm going home, walking in sunshine as you can imagine, and my sister asks me why the long face. I say “Oh don't get me started, it's because of a bird. It wouldn’t let me sleep. I hate that bird so goddamn much.”

At this point, the streetlight was right next to me. I lean against it as I leer at my sister.

“See,” I continue, drunken rage in my voice, “I’m gonna fuck that bird up. I’m—I’m gonna fuck it up. I’m gonna go to its tree, right, and then I’m going to go all AAAAARGH.” I turn against the streetlight. “And I will PUNCH IT! LIKE! THIS!”

Like a bullet shot from the depths of hell, my fist soars through the air, breaking the sound barrier, straight towards the streetlight—

And I miss.

The powerful roar turns into a yelp.

Momentum makes me twirl towards the left.

My head smashes against the streetlight.

Really fucking hard.

Sister: Did you. Did you honestly just. Get beaten up by a—

Me: NO. DON’T.

Sister: You lost a fistfight against something with no arms.

Me: SHUT UP.

Sister: You’re never living this down. Ever.

Me: GOD DAMMIT MY FACE HURTS WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME.

Sister: …We’re just walking out the dentist office. You’re more anesthetics than human at this point. It’s impossible for you to feel any pain.

Me: I HIT THE BIT THAT ISN’T NUMB.

Sister: How can you be so clinically bad at life.

Me:I THINK I'M BLEEDING.

Thanks to that wonderful invention that is Whatsapp all my family knows that a fucking streetlight got the best of me on a – completely unfair – fight. Sister was right, because I'm never living it down. This is it. This is how I will be remembered. THIS IS MY LEGACY.

And the bird is still hooting next to my window.

I haven’t slept fully in three days.

I have another dentist appointment in two days. My sister won’t be here to take care of me after the procedure.

I’m afraid I might get mugged by a mailbox on my way home.

31 comments · 510 views

15w, 2d

I have a dentist appointment tomorrow. I gotta get up early to get my wisdom teeth removed.

I'm TERRIFIED.

Holy SHIT I had no idea I was afraid of dentists, but I apparently am. It's 3 AM. Less than five hours to sleep. There's an owl hooting by my window. I hate this fucking owl. What the fuck is it hooting to. GO HUNT SOME MICE YOU FLYING CUNT. LET ME SLEEP.

What the everloving sweet fuck ass-backwards double-dipped banana is a pigeon doing at 3 am hooting like a dog bit its bird dick. God damn it.

Christ almighty I'm not gonna sleep am I. Fuck. Fuuuuck. Do I need to be well-rested before getting anesthesiated?

I'm gonna fall asleep as they go through my mouth, aren't I.

FUUUUUCK.

Okay uh. Guys. Distract me. Comment with something funny, or, or some silly picture. Go read my new story -- it's about clever stuff and it talks about a chimpanzee playing the bagpipe -- and comment there, or start drama, or GOD FUCKING SHIT I'M TERRIFIED.

THEY'RE GONNA PIERCE.

MY BEAUTIFUL MOUTH.

I'LL NEVER GET MARRIED NOW.

And I'm weak to anesthesics. Tomorrow I'll be high as your dad when I put cocaine on my cock. Cockaine. Oh fucking lord I'm panicking so hard.

18w, 3d

Reaper’s voice was soft like a pillow being fucked by a Rottweiler, but it still echoed through the empty corridors of Schoolverwatch.

Widowmaker’s answer came as fast as a French man. “Non. Fuck offé.”

“Do you think that… If you still had feelings…” Reaper gulped. “Do you think we could be friends?”

This made Widowmaker actually turn around and look at Reaper. More than that: she actually regarded him. Nobody ever regarded Reaper, out of fear of turning retarded.

There was something different about him today. True, his owl-skull mask and black longcoat looked as emasculating as ever—but there was something else. Under all that macho bravado, there was clearly a scared child, desperately looking for some kind of human contact.

Widowmaker had no feelings, but she was still a sexy French lady—and all sexy French ladies knew how to say exactly what men wanted to hear.

“What le cheesefucké are you talking about.”

“Oh, I-I just… wanted to know. You know?”

“Non.”

Reaper’s face couldn’t be seen under his whole Reaper Gear, but Widowmaker could tell he was trying to smile, because he looked sadder than usual. “Well,” he said. “I’ve been having a bad day, and I think this is something I need to hear. You see…”

Adulthood had never been easy on him, oh no. From the day he’d arrived to Schoolverwatch, he had been shunned away by the rest of the students; doubtlessly, because his mysterious and brooding figure inspired fear as well as awe. Only Widowmaker, the woman with no feelings, felt like hanging around with him now and then—and only if he paid for all her stuff.

And with the sun shining this much, and with all those groups of happy students going to class together around him, it was really apparent just how lonely Reaper really was. But it was his burden to carry: he who donned the heavy coat, donned the heavy solit—oh God he was so alone oh Jesus Christ why was his life like this what had he done to deserve this.

“I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE SPEAKING LIKE THAT. WHAT ARE YOU, A COMMUNIST?!”

Ah. Of course. Wherever Reindhart was, Soldier 76 followed. Reaper slowed down a little, till he was walking side by side with the other two men. If he tried really hard, he could imagine that they were friends and he wasn’t so goddamn—

“What? Oh, shit, Celsius. Yes, yes, I know, I was just…” Reindhart pointed. “I was just reading that, y’see, the thermometer on that sign says—”

BLAM!

“…Says nothing, ‘cause you just shot it. Fuckin’ell.”

Soldier 76 managed to sound red, white, and blue when he talked. “I REFUSE TO READ ANY SINGS.”

Reindhart waved a hand. “For Future-Christ’s sake, I know.”

“THAT DON’T SPEAK MY LANGUAGE.”

“Still pretty fucking hot, if you ask me.” Reindhart noticed Reaper, then, and almost on instinct he got away from him. “Oh. It’s you. Are you seriously dressing like that in this weather? Holy shit, you’re dripping. Your mask is all wet. You’re gonna die in there, Reaper.”

“LET US SING THE PLEDGE OF ALLEGIANCE TOGETHER, MY FELLOW AMERICAN CITIZENS.”

Reaper almost managed to whimper back a reply. Almost.

But then they turned a corner, and she appeared.

Hana “D.Va” ApparentlyNotJapanese, the hottest, greatest, smartest girl in Schoolverwatch. She was short and slim and smelled like Doritos and sweat. Her hair, both on her head and over her upper lip, was smooth and silky. She walked with the grace of someone who masturbates to anime figurines.

And she was Reaper’s dream girl.

She played videogames, too. That’s right: a true gamer girl, straight out of the Old Myths! Rumors say she played real games—like Hatred, or maybe Call of Duty—and not just vagina games—The Sims, Tetris—but Reaper could not be fooled. He’d read enough about women to deem himself an expert, and such a thing was impossible.

Still, a nerdy girl. It would be so amazing, if they were together. She would surely listen to everything Reaper had to say, and she would love how cool Reaper was, and she would kiss him and hug him and tell him how much she loved him, and he would be the best boyfriend ever, because he was a true gentleman and knew how to treat a lady and—

“Look’at her go,” Reindhart howled, and he brought Reaper back to reality. “Boy, before coming to this school, I’d never imagined women chicks could be neckbeards. You heard the rumors?”

“YES. BUT SHE TOLD THE PRINCIPAL IT WAS NOT PORN, IT WAS HENTAI, AND IT’S ART, SO MAYBE SHE WON’T BE EXPELLED.”

“No, not that. I’m talking about the Prom thing.”

“AH, THE PROM. THE MOST AMERICAN OF HIGHSCHOOL TRADITIONS. YES, I APPROVE OF THE PROM.”

Reaper felt his heart jump in his chest.

The Prom, indeed. He also approved of the Prom. He had been doing nothing but approve of the Prom since the day he heard of it. The picture of him and D.va dancing together in cool black leather clothes was all he could dream of before crying himself to sleep.

Dancing slowly, carefully, yes. And she would have a corset, and she would press herself against his chest, and then she would lean towards him and close her eyes and—

“What? You wanna go to the Prom?” Reindhart asked. “You got a chick to bring there or…?”

“YES. I AM BRINGING THE MOST BEAUTIFUL LADY WITH ME. MY ONE AND TRUE LOVE.”

A moment of silence.

“The robot ninja?”

“AMERICA.”

“And the robot ninja.”

“AND THE ROBOT NINJA.”

Pause.

“HE’S AMERICAN.”

“Sure, buddy.” Reindhart patted Soldier 76 on the back. “Sure he is. But I’m, talking about D.Va here. Apparently...” and Reaper could swear Reindhart paused and winked at him here, “…someone is inviting her to the Prom today.”

“SURELY YOU’RE JOKING.”

“Nein. And she probably heard the rumors, too. I mean, she looks happy, moustache floating majestically in the wind and all that.”

It was at this moment that Reaper felt he knew what he had to do.

Sometimes, Destiny calls us. Sometimes even the greatest man must make a choice, and answer to the Call.

Reaper was a cool guy, melancholic and sad, but also dangerous and deadly. He was not one to invite girls to the Prom—he was to be feared, to appear uninvited and steal the hearts of all women in the hall while doing so.

Plus, talking with D.Va made him sweaty.

So till this very moment, his plans on Prom Night had been pretty much stay at home and watch Sonic the Hedgehog tribute videos to dull the pain. But maybe that wasn’t the only option.

Maybe he could dare to hope.

Something changed in Reaper, that moment. Reindhart had clearly sent him a sign here, telling him to not be scared, nudging him in the right direction. Maybe he’d found about his crush, somehow.

And maybe they believed in him. Maybe he could be like them, like the people who had friends, and parties, and dates. Maybe this was the day.

Never mind the sweat—he was sweating, yes, but it was pretty hot anyway, so it wouldn’t look suspicious. And never mind his cool and quiet nature, which could easily be mistaken by crippling shyness. He would manage to speak without stuttering, if he really tried.

D.Va was in front of him.

D.Va was going to get a date.

D.Va was going to get him as a date.

For the first time in what felt like years, Reaper smiled. He took a step towards D.Va. He opened his mouth, ready to call her name…

And a green blur passed him and stopped right next to D.Va.

“Hey, Hana!”

“Oh! L-Lúcio!” The blush made her cuter. “Fancy meeting you here!”

“Hahah, right? Hey, how you doing? Everything good?”

“Yeah! Y-yeah, of course!” She was playing with her hair now. “I, uh. I’m great! What about you?”

“Peachy as always!” Lúcio shot D.va a million dollar smile. “Hey, wanna go to the Prom together? It will be fun!”

D.Va almost tripped, and Lúcio had to make sure she didn’t fall down. “T-the Prom? With… With me?”

“Sure!”

“I…” And she shot him back the smile. “I’d love to.”

“Great!”

And they fastened their pace, and soon there was almost fifty meters between Reaper and D.Va and Lúcio.

Then, Reindhart patted Soldier 76 on the back once more. “See? Told you. People were saying Lúcio would do that. He’s such a cool guy.”

“THAT WAS ODDLY HEARTWARMING. I WAS SURE SHE WOULD JUST STAY AT HOME AT PROM NIGHT, WATCHING UNAMERICAN TRIBUTE VIDEOS.”

“I know, right? If anything else had asked her out of pity, it would’ve been pathetic. But with Lúcio? I don’t know, I just think it’s great for him to bite the bullet. It feels like he did something really selfless right there. Wish she doesn’t scratch her crotch while dancing, though.” A pause. “Or at least that she doesn’t smell her fingers afterwards.”

“Hahah!” Another green blur, and suddenly Lúcio was back there with them. “Hello there, Reindhart, Soldier! Did I just hear my name?”

“Yeah, we saw what you did with D.Va there.” Reindhart gave him a thumbs-up. “You’re a good person, Lúcio.”

“YOU TRULY ARE. THE BURGER KING.”

“Aw. I’m sure that’s, uh, that’s a compliment, coming from you, Soldier.” Lúcio crossed his arms. “I just… Don’t be mean to D.Va, okay? I really wanted her to go to the Prom with me. This is not me trying to—”

“Yes, yes, we know. Future-Jesus, you’re so cool, Lúcio. Anybody else, and that would have been the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.” And then, an evil spark—perhaps hinting at his German nature—appeared on Reindhart’s eye, and he pointed at Reaper, still walking in silence near them. “Of course, that’s a heavy thing to say, this guy existing and all.”

“Oh! Reaper!” Lúcio blinked, then smiled at Reaper as if nothing had happened and then he put an arm around his shoulders. “Yikes, I didn’t see you, buddy! You sure are silent, huh? That’s so cool! So what’s up? Anything new? Anything I can help with?”

He sounded completely honest. Completely, absolutely honest. He really wanted to know about Reaper’s day, and if he could help with something.

He was the closest thing to a friend Reaper would ever have.

There was a pause.

Reaper ran away, crying.

“I… I just thought, you know.” Reaper fiddled with his HELLFIRE SHOTGUNS. He’d created the weapons himself, in his basement, and they were extremely cool. “That, that maybe, as we hang out together now and then, that maybe we are friends and…”

His words petered out into silence.

Widowmaker looked at him. She looked at him hard.

They hung out together now and then, all right. And there was a reason why.

It had been three months ago, that Lúcio had given her the money.

“Just, try to hang out with him now and then?” he said. “Give him someone to talk to? I think he doesn’t like me, but I believe he might be a good guy, if he’s given the chance.”

Widowmaker looked at Lúcio. Then, she looked at the money.

“I have no feelings,” she explained. “I can not give a fucké.”

“Yeah, that’s… I mean, you won’t feel as disgusted by him as the rest. That’s why I’m asking you.” Lúcio bit his lip. His voice was sincere. “Please? I just hate seeing Reaper like that. Poor thing is so alone.”

21w, 5h

21w, 4d

A review? “How strange!” you might think. I only know Aragón for one thing—sneaking in my house uninvited and eating all my food—and that has nothing to do with reviewing! Well, that’s a wonderful thing to say, my dear. Put down that telephone, please? I cut the line anyway, so it’s not like you’re gonna contact the police even if you try.

Thank you! Anyway—it’s always hard for me to review stuff, because I tend to be really excited when I like things. I can’t really explain why I love Indiana Jones so much, y’see, I’m busy using this belt as a whip and punching the closest thing to a Nazi I can find, which just so happens to be your wife. As such, it takes a toll to actually stay still, calm down, take a deep breath, and articulate why I—

Oh? Oh, I hid your wife under the sofa. Yeah. Well, I think she was unconscious, but, I mean, if she wasn’t then she sure is now. One heavy sofa you’ve got there, I gotta say. No, I wouldn’t really move it if I were you, actually. I heard something go “crack” a while ago, and—eeeexactly.

See, I said it takes me a lot to review stuff, but I do it when it’s needed. If I can help the author by doing so (and if I’m allowed to be completely honest, I guess) then what the hell, I’mma do just that, don’t you think?

Hence, I’m reviewing something that you probably haven’t read, what with the majority of mankind not knowing of it. Shame, if you ask me, but I’m going to review it with that in mind, so think less spoilers and more impressions to build hype and discuss literature in general. I’ll be talking about a little indie sci-fi book named Company Town, by one Edward Pink. You might know him as Chuckfinley here in Fimfiction.

Neat, huh? One smart cookie we’ve got there, writing books and all while we’re all distracted with our unconscious wives. Okay yeah I see you’re going to call the police now no matter what I say, so just go ahead. Here, take my phone. Ask for Sergeant Molly to come, if you don’t mind? She’s sweet on me, so she won’t beat me up so hard.

What? You aren’t calling the police? Woah! Thank you very much! I knew you were a nice person—I’ve always got a good eye for people. I really should come rob your house more often, but what can I say? Your wife scares me. There’s Nazi-looking, and then there’s Nazi-looking.

Nice kitchen, I dig the curtains. Oh, no, no! No need to offer me a cup of tea, thank you! I already swallowed all the bags when I raided it and all. Yeah, while you were sleeping. Wasn’t that yummy, not gonna lie—I can’t for the life of me stand chamomile tea. It tastes like lava.

Anyway.

I heard of Company Town from the author itself, when he blogged about it and explained that “Edward Pink” is not his real name either, which is probably the most indie thing you can do without being a white girl with a guitar and a so-so singing voice.

Not much to say about the book’s presentation, I guess. It’s just a book you read on Kindle, which is a thing I’d never used—but it has a free app for your PC and it’s easy to use, so I can’t really complain, I’d say. I spent around half an hour trying to download the thing, though, but that’s more because I’m bad with computers.

I mean, turns out you gotta log in Amazon to buy stuff. I had no idea. I legitimately thought it sorta was like, I don’t know, like when you buy bus tickets or something. No, I’d never bought anything over Amazon before. No. Yes, I know. No, I’m not sixty-seven years old. Yes, I am slightly idiotic. Anyway, it took me a while to realize this, and once I was logged in the sodding website asked me about my address, and as I was trying to buy a digital book, I assumed I had messed up somewhere, so I closed the tab and…

…yeah I had to, uh, to ask for help to do this. They didn’t laugh at me too much though, so there’s that. It’s surprisingly easy to buy the books once you know how to do so, however—you log in, you put your info in there, and then the book is sent to your Kindle account. In case you don’t have a Kindle, you just download the free app, open it, and voilá! Book is there.

Amazon should really give you a goddamn .PDF file.

Nah, I don’t mind if we take a walk, being in the kitchen is dumb if we can’t have a drink. Upstairs? Uh, sure I guess.

So now, to the book itself—Company Town is indeed a sci-fi book, and Chuckfinley really knows about sci-fi. You don’t need to know anything about the genre to like it? But I’ll say, and this is important so listen up because it’ll come up later, I’ll say that he’s clearly aiming for a pulp angle, a pulp feeling to the whole thing.

This is hardly a surprise if you’re familiar with the author’s work, but as it stays, I’d really say Company Town works as an introduction to pulp if you don’t know the genre, or as a celebration of it, if you’re already familiar with it. The pulp inspiration never really takes the spotlight, however—it serves to tell the story, but the plot is what matters the most, and the book doesn’t seem to be afraid of dropping the standards of the genre to try to make the most of every moment.

Man, these are a lot of stairs. Oh, the plot? Yeah, I haven’t really said what the plot is about yet, that with all the talk about genres and celebrations. Well, it follows Detective Clay, a standard pulp not-by-the-books detective—not noir, though, don’t expect long monologues from her—who is tasked with what sounds like an impossible case.

Sounds like, because it kind of is. The world is falling apart around her after something destroyed FTL travel, most AIs and computers if not all, and overall anything that’s remotely technologic. Society is kind of destroying itself because you try to take Iphones away from us now and see how long we last, and so Clay gets her assignment:

She has to catch a dangerous criminal. But nobody knows who that person is, how does that person look, what’s their gender, what’s their age, what’s their race, what’s their nothing. And anybody who’s ever known about said person is either dead or amnesiac. There, Clay. Go and find this thing, you’ve got sixteen hours or you’re dead, bye-bye.

And Clay goes hahahah f—uh. Um. Excuse me, but this room is…? I mean, it kind of looks like, you know. Oh? Oh, your daughters? This is their room?

Ah. So they’re named Sylvia and Sonia, then? Beautiful names, beautiful names. It’s just, ah, with your wife looking the way she looks, don’t you think writing their initials on the door like that is kind of…?

No? It’s just my imagination? Okay, if you say so. It’s just that it looks sorta weird, sorry.

Anyway. So that’s the hook of the book, which is fairly good and fairly standard for pulp fiction—impossible mission, smart hero who doesn’t play by your daddy’s rules, and of course, there’s a twist at the ending.

This twist is what convinced me to review the book? But to be honest, all that came before sure planted the reviewing seed in my womb before it.

The thing is, literature is hard as it is, but immersive literature is harder. Company Town is not perfect—the start feels too sudden, almost rushed, and feels oddly rougher than the rest of the book. The ending brings closure, but the very last scene could have used a little more fleshing out to really hammer it home—but what it does well, it does extremely well.

If I’m bringing this out, it’s obviously because—Wait, this is your room? This? Huh. That’s… that’s a lot of swastikas. That’s a lot of swastikas. Wow, that one’s signed? That must have been expensive! Hahah. Hm.

Okay, I need to ask. Is this a sex thing? I can’t tell if this is your actual ideology or just a sex thing. I wonder if this being just a fetish is better or worse, morally speaking, though. Now, that’s a question for the ages, eh?

Woah! I’d never seen a bedroom with a hidden staircase. Sure, I don’t mind going first, hand me the torch. Hahah. This feels like a dungeon! I’m having so much fun. I really love the hospitality of this part of the city. Way better than the people in the suburbs, am I right? They’re so coldhearted.

Anyway, so Company Town again.

Immersion is the name of the game, because when you get to it, sci-fi is all about that. Worldbuilding is outright mandatory when detailing a completely different world. But Company Town is about the character’s mission, not a sorry excuse to gush about the planet the author invented.

So the world, while fully fleshed out, is presented to us at an organic way. Everything is perfectly planned out—I wouldn’t be surprised if Edward Pink had planned the entire sewer system of the planet, judging by the amount of detail the book throws at you now and then—but it’s never sluggish, because everything is introduced when it needs to be introduced.

Nothing is unnecessary, is what I mean. It all feels tight, like part of a bigger picture. The reader discovers how this particular part of the Police Department works, and the tidbits of exposition we get are succinct and fall naturally into the narrative.

The reader feels that the world is alive and breathing, but not that the author is trying to dunk our face in his bathtub, so as to say. We immerse ourselves instead of drowning in needlessly convoluted prose.

Here’s where the twist comes in, by the way.

Because, so far—okay wow, this is a dungeon, no kidding. What’re those shackles for?

What, me?

To the wall?

Huh.

Well, okay. But the surprise better be worth it!

Anyway—so far, in the book, the reader just follows the narrative, because the adventures of Clay are actually rather fun. It’s sci-fi detective work, which is always a pleasure, and it has all the ingredients for a good fun adventure: red herrings, investigations, foreshadowing, quick pace, neat dialogue, lots of legwork. Clay is a smart lady, and it’s a joy to follow her.

But the world is in the background, covering it all like a cozy blanket, and that really helps to suck you in. And the book knows this! I won’t give away the twist, but it works both as an in-story twist and as a meta twist.

It takes your expectations and plays with it, you see. This is what, in my book, elevates Company Town from merely an entertaining book to something that you have to read.

Because you look at it and see it for what it is: a short story with a clear pulp inspiration. Remember that? I said that was important. So you go on with that, but then the twist comes, and turns out the book has been in the same ride as you from the very beginning.

I can’t really say anything else without spoiling it, and I won’t do that to you. It’s not a fourth wall thing, in case you’re fearing that—I can see it in your eyes!—nor is it something that requires you to be genre-savy. It’s the kind of twist that, if you’re somewhat experienced in this kind of book, will throw you out for a loop. And if you aren’t? It’ll throw you out for two of those. The story is perfectly self-aware, but in a subtle way, so you don’t realize it’s self-aware till you’re done.

And then you close the book, frown, and go “damn. Damn!”

I couldn’t stop grinning for the last fifteen pages or so, when everything unfolds.

So that’s why I’m reviewing it! I usually don’t do that, but the book is indie as hell—it won’t be known unless people talk about it—it’s short, it’s cheap, and it’s available on Amazon. I can’t force you to buy it, but I sure did buy it myself, and I don’t regret it.

Don’t judge by the first scene, though. As I said, it feels oddly rushed. Company Town isn’t perfect. But it’s the best short sci-fi pulp story I’ve read in over two years, and I read a lot of those every month.

That’s my humble opinion, and—what? Why would I scream for help? Especially if you say nobody would hear me. I mean, it sounds counterintuitive. Congratulation on the insulation, though, if that’s true. An entire dungeon that’s soundproof? That has to be useful!

I gotta say, though, these shackles aren’t really comfortable. Does it need to be so tight around my wrists? I can’t move.

This is a thing that actually happened and it honestly took me over two hours to realize that something was amiss. I spent two hours reading the weirdest goddamn fetish porn shit ever. The following is the conversation in which I realized what was going on.

It's been edited to make it more readable, and to add a little more content? (And to censor some bits, like how I don't call MrNumbers "MrNumbers" in Skype -- I use an incredibly hilarious pun with his real name instead) But it's very much based on reality.

Starts slow. Sadly, it didn't stay that way.

Extremely safe for work, worry not. However, it's safe for work in the most horrible of ways.

32w, 3d

—uck you mean, “when the red light’s blinking”. There are so many red lights in this shit I wouldn’t be surprised if the guy with the headphones tried to sell me a dildo.

What. What? Ah. It’s on? We’re live? Oh. Cool. Did you add the guitar riff? I don’t think I heard any guitar riff. Harold I said I wanted one. Just give me something cool when this shit starts. Like, after the intro, or when it ends. ‘Cause I like guitar riffs, that’s why! God dammit, I hate you so much. I hate you so much. I can’t fucking—

Oh right yes, the audience. Yes.

Hello, Audience.

I’m your new host.

I’ll be stepping in from now on, as our previous seer suffered a horrible case of finding a better job. Fortunately, the Union backlisted me ages ago, so there’s no way I’m getting that myself—apparently I was too good for them. Eh? Of course.

So let’s get going. The tarot cards are ready, the fumes are filling this room, and I just killed a rabbit to read its entrails. This is…

…The Horoscope Section.

…

…

Oh my God Harold was it that hard to give me a FUCKING GUITAR RIFF AFTER THE NAME DROP CHRIST ALMIGHTY WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM HAROLD I DESERVE TO BE HAPPY TOO I DESERVE TO BE—

The Horoscope Section

Guitar riff

Fucking Christ, man. Not so hard, wasn’t it?

‘Kay, let’s get to it. You scream the name of them signs, I say what the morrow will bring them. This is gonna be easy. Go!

ARIES

Think of the most painful thing you’ve ever experienced, and multiply it by crying children. That is your death, and it’s coming soon. Next!

…ARIES PART TWO

Part two? The most important bits are —

I SAID ARIES

Oh, come on.

Okay, okay. So, Aries: there’ll be an international conflict, right? A really large one. Everything that you ever loved will blow up, and turns out you were blessed with a wonderful self-esteem.

Now, Harold, if you excuse me, we have eleven more signs to go, so next!

LEO

In a most ironic twist, you’ll be killed by a shark. Next!

PISCES

In a most ironic twist, you’ll be killed by a lion.

Gotta love that symmetry. Next!

UM

Um? I don’t know that sign. Not getting any readings either.

ARE YOU, UH, ARE YOU GONNA KEEP DOING THIS

Doing what? Telling the future?

PROPHETISING OUR AUDIENCE’S DEMISE

Only if they’re going to die. Harold, you know I’m the best, right? I never miss. But horoscopes are inherently stupid. This shit is based on the month you were born, for God’s sake—I’m predicting the future of one twelfth of the population at the time! Even if I never miss…

Well, the only thing that many people can have in common is that they all die, eventually. So yeah. Sorry for being statistically accurate. Next!

GEMINI

Don’t be Chinese. Next.

OKAY NOW GEMINI BUT WITHOUT THE RACISM

Hey! I’m not being racist, I’m being accurate. The best thing you can do this week, if you’re a Gemini, is to not be Chinese. That is a fact.

Seriously. I have absolutely nothing against the Chinese, it’s just that China will be one of the major parties in that war I mentioned earlier. So sure, the Aries will get fucked, but the Chinese Geminis?

Hah, hah, wow. Yikes.

I mean, all the other Geminis are fucked too, sure, but statistically there are more Chinese Geminis than nonChinese Geminis, right? So there you go.

LIBRA

You will fuck a goat.

…

Wait, wha—

SCORPIO

What no fuck Scorpio, what the hell. Libra will what?

PLEASE MOVE ON TO SCORPIO

I mean – I just. A goat. Libra, as in, all the Libras in the world, will—okay yeah, there’s only one way to read this. You will fuck a goat. This is a choice you’ll make, and then you’ll carry that weight for the rest of your life.

This is, like, holy shit. A goat? Are you people aware of the implications here? All the Libras will fuck, or be fucked by, a goat! A goat! This is—

AQUARIUS

—think of it, we’re talking about one twelfth of the population. One twelfth of the population! Jesus fuck, do you people have any idea how much that is?! This is, like – Do we even have that many goats? Somebody look that up. What’s the ratio? Fifteen people per goat?

Fifteen people per goat! Each goat will be fucked fifteen times on average! That’s fucking insane! How does this even work? What about the little kids, the babies, the really old folks? I mean, shit, the logistics make no sense! What about the people who live far away from the goats? Will this be, like, a pilgrimage thing or…?

And this applies to women, too! Hahah! Ladies, fuck almighty, I both admire and fear your determination. I have no idea how this will work, but damn it if you aren’t gonna—

VIRGO

No, fuck Virgo too, Harold—this is important. What is the motivation here?! This is a major cultural movement! One twelfth of the population!

YOU MOVE ON FROM THE GOATS OR I’M CALLING SECURITY ON YOUR ASS

ONE TWELFTH OF THE POPULATION! THIS WILL CHANGE THE WORLD!

MOVE THE FUCK ON

NO!

SECURITY

God dammit.

Oh, for fu—I’m moving on! I’m moving on, see! No goats, no goats whatsoever—now get your thugs out of here!

TAURUS

Yes, yes, yes. Ugh.

Okay, Taurus. War again. Caused by you, because you were too bullheaded. Hah, hah. Hah, hah.

In all seriousness, now – you will cause the war, especially if you are the leader of China. Mind you, you will not start the war at all? But you will be too bullheaded (hah, hah) to accept a particular treaty that will apparently offend the shit out of you.

So, war.

Gotta love politics, really. Next!

CAPRICORN

Capricorn. Capricorn…

Huh. Hey, maybe the goat thing is metaphorical, and it actually refers to—

Anyway, Capricorn, I don’t fucking know. An average number of your group will catch a cold or whatever. You’re miserable, and you will continue being miserable. Next.

CANCER

If you’re a Cancer, and also the President of the United States, you will declare a war on China.

Oh. Hey! Yeah, this makes sense—you make an offer to China, right, and China refuses. Then you declare the war. Apparently, this is all because China is the country with the largest number of goats in the world, and they refuse to… share…

OH MY FUCKING GOD I KNEW IT I FUCKING—

SAGGITARIUS

—SAID IT’D CHANGE THE WORLD YOU SON OF A BITCH WELL GUESS WHAT I WAS RIGHT AND WE’RE GOING FULL CIRCLE. WORLD WAR THREE PREDICTED SUCCESFULLY BECAUSE OF A BUNCH OF LITERAL FUCKING GOATS, HAROLD, IN YOUR FACE—